


Three-Four Time

by discardedflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Music, Poetic, at least at the beginning, well indirectly kind of but nonetheless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8001865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discardedflower/pseuds/discardedflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like constantly dancing to three-four time, quarter notes constantly changing but never playing together. It was a single melody, never quite becoming a real song. Simple, considering the depth of Sherlock’s being, but something that was just so Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>Something was missing, something that made him complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-Four Time

It was like constantly dancing to three-four time, quarter notes constantly changing but never playing together. It was a single melody, never quite becoming a real song. Simple, considering the depth of Sherlock’s being, but something that was just so  _Sherlock Holmes._

Just like his broken song, Sherlock was never  _here,_  never completely. His mind, his body, and his emotions were all separate things to him. He thought; his mind was a rushing whirlwind of things that nobody else could ever see. He moved; everything about it elegant and terribly thought through. He felt, of course he did, if just less frequently than ordinary people. He felt nonetheless, and when he did,  _oh._  It was so intense, even for a man such as Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes thought and moved and felt, with such capacities any ordinary being could even dream of reaching, but never together. Never at the same time.

It was infuriating, really. Sherlock knew he was more,  _something,_  than most. He wasn’t modest about it – he found modesty idiotic, after all. And yet, he also knew that he wasn’t complete. Surely, there was something missing, something that could make him finally an entire being. Something that could complete the broken song.

He had thought it was the cocaine, at first. It was everything his (not so) ordinary self wasn’t. It brought him to Earth but sent him to space, helped him think and helped him to stop. And wouldn’t that be just what everyone supposed Sherlock deserved? That the one thing he needed would most likely kill him in the end?

It wasn’t, however. Coming down from a high felt like regret, and he still wasn’t complete. Not in the way that he wanted to be. When Mycroft intervened, like he always does, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was more infuriated or relieved.

Then came the Detective Inspector, who promised him a job he might actually deem  _interesting,_  so long as he stayed sober. And the job was nearly everything Sherlock had dreamed of. He used his mind the way it was meant to be used, and for once he did not get in unnecessary trouble for doing so (well, that was a lie, but Sherlock supposed that he could deal with that). He was kept busy, and it wasn’t so tediously  _boring_  like nearly everything (and everyone, for that matter) else he’s had to deal with throughout his life.

And he thought that maybe he had found the missing something in his life. Being a consulting detective was work, both mentally and physically, and he felt more content in himself than he ever had before.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

Sherlock was more than a little annoyed, because it  _wasn’t._  He still felt such longing for something, something missing and important. Something that, at this point, he was sure he would never find.

Upon realising this, Sherlock began training himself. He told himself that he would be fine as an incomplete being, so long as he continued to use what he could. He started becoming content with the fact that he would never be entirely content. And wasn’t that an odd thought? That he had to become okay with something that he had wished for his entire life never happening?

Other people might call it saddening. Sherlock chose not to think too closely on the topic.

In any case, Sherlock continued on with his half-life that surely should be considered more than any ordinary person would have. He helped (and yes, the correct term is helped, because they desperately needed it) New Scotland Yard, and stayed free of drugs. He supposed life wasn’t so bad without them. Nicotine patches were acceptable substitutes if the situation was dire.

He wasn’t nearly as bored as he used to be. That still didn’t make him feel like his life is any less extremely boring.

The fateful day of which Sherlock Holmes met one John Watson would surely change him, though he hadn’t known that it would be to such an extreme extent.

From the moment the blonde man had walked in, Sherlock had been interested, though he could pride himself in feigning disinterest quite well. A quick glance told him that the stranger was more captivating than any of his offending colleagues or acquaintances. It was intriguing, for he had looked ordinary enough (though Sherlock could not deny he was rather fit and handsome), and yet he was quite the opposite.

Oh, and he was perfect.

John Watson was an anomaly among humans. He called Sherlock things like _brilliant_ and _amazing,_ let him keep heads in the refrigerator and legs on the table with minimum complaint, and came along with him to crime scenes. Oddly enough, Sherlock _liked_ John being there. He somehow was a grounding presence there, and knowing that he was right behind Sherlock, no matter where, made Sherlock calmer than he had ever remembered being.

Not to mention, Doctor John Watson was a _fantastic_ kisser. It had happened fairly spontaneously, of course, just as most things regarding the two of them do. Sherlock and John had been, for once, doing nought. A case regarding stolen fish and doorframes had just come to conclusion, and Sherlock was taking a break from saying, “Bored, John!” every few minutes. Instead, they were sitting compliantly on the sofa, not far away but not close either. They were watching something on the telly, though Sherlock could not be bothered to ask what it was, as he was rather preoccupied with staring at the side of John’s face.

Sherlock was not staring at the side of John’s face because he found it attractive. No, rather, he was staring at the side of John’s face because he was trying to find out _why_ he found the man so attractive. One may say those reasonings are one and the same, but Sherlock would be quick to argue that they were most surely _not_ and to even suggest such an idea would be utterly _preposterous._

Of course John was attractive. His relationship record was testament to that. That wasn’t the problem, however, because Sherlock had seen attractive people every day. The problem was that, in normal situations, the great Sherlock Holmes was not affected by said attractive people. With John, however, he found himself consistently distracted. It wasn’t just his physical appearance, though. It was his protectiveness and loyalty, his hideous jumpers, his high pitched giggles that were frankly adorable (and who was this Sherlock that found anything _adorable?)_. It was…everything. Not a single flaw that John had could drive him away; it only made him more endearing.  Why was this so?

Oh. _Oh._ It all made sense now. Sherlock was in love with him. Irrevocably, entirely, in love with him. How peculiar.

It was then that Sherlock had refocused his eyes entirely and realised that John was, in fact, suddenly staring right back at him, a small smile on his face.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Sherlock,” John had said, and before Sherlock had deemed any sort of reply appropriate, it was happening, and it was quite possibly the most exquisite thing that he had ever experienced. Yes, he had kissed before, but those were all emotionless, done specifically for experiments or cases. John Watson was most decidedly not an experiment.

Also, Sherlock was quite certain that he had never kissed anyone quite like this. It was soft, but insistent, and at some point John had taken his hands and put one on Sherlock’s face and intertwined the other with Sherlock’s own hands. Sherlock closed his eyes, and just for a moment, lost himself in the most blissful way he had ever done.

As John pulled away, he kept the hands intertwined, and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John looking at him, something akin to pure devotion in his eyes and the softest smile that did something to Sherlock’s heart. He found himself smiling back.

And suddenly, as they returned to the television, nothing seemly having changed except for the hands held together between them, Sherlock realised that he was together, his every fiber finally playing together in a blissful and beautiful harmony, chords changing, creating a wonderful, full melody. It was the song, the song that had never been complete, finally coming together. It was perfect. Sherlock danced to three-four time, and it no longer felt so wrong and incomplete,  _he_  no longer felt incomplete, because now there was John, dancing alongside him.

The missing something, the thing that Sherlock needed most, was not a thing at all. It was so much better. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading xoxo
> 
> i am imperfect, and so is my writing. please point out any mistakes, it helps me out much. i am unbeta-ed and also not britpicked, so feedback is lovely.
> 
> hope you all are doing amazingly!
> 
> -mad


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